


We're like fireflies (we'll make some light of our own)

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 Fireflies, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been acting weird all day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're like fireflies (we'll make some light of our own)

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to write Scott and Stiles as a romantic pairing. Ever. Not because I dislike it - I actually have kind of a ridiculous amount of love for all of Loz's fics about the two of them - but because I had kind of a negative experience with a reviewer about a year ago, and it put me off writing them together. But then season three started, and I've got all these Scott/Stiles feelings, and I just can't stay away anymore. 
> 
> Dylan, you can't tell me you don't know what you're doing when you look at Posey that way while the camera's rolling. It's freaking intense, and I can't handle it, okay?

Stiles has been acting weird all day.

He is jittery - which is worlds apart from his usual fidgeting; that’s his default state, but this jumpiness has a manic, anxious edge to it - from the moment he hops out of his jeep and joins Scott where he waits by his bike. Scott gives him a concerned glance, but Stiles pretends to be oblivious, and they move on, acting like the moment never happened as they enter the school building side by side. Still, not talking about it does not magically make the strangeness go away. Stiles does not open his mouth or raise his hand once in any of the classes they have together. He simply sits, wan and withdrawn. Their teachers shoot him wary looks off and on throughout the day.

At first, Scott figures it has to do with his friend Heather. If he ever had to see Stiles lying cold and lifeless under one of those awful white sheets in the morgue, he would be shattered. How could anything ever be okay again without his best friend? He knows that Stiles wasn’t quite as close to Heather, but there was still such a history between them, and she was one of the few connections he had left to his mother.

Wanting to be supportive, Scott does his best to stay close. At lunch, he asks if Stiles wants to talk about Heather. His friend goes pale and pushes his lunch away, shaking his head.

Scott lets it go.

After school, though, he has had enough. He wants to help his friend, which is kind of complicated when he doesn’t actually know what is wrong.

Before Stiles can open the driver’s side door to the jeep, Scott puts a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there even though he can feel the way it stiffens under his touch. “Hey,” he says gently. “Talk to me.”

For a moment, it looks like Stiles might just pull away, but then he sighs, letting the tension go out of his body. He won’t look away from where his hand rests on his jeep’s handle. “The whole thing is just so screwed up, you know? I mean, Heather and two other kids are _dead_ , and they didn’t do anything wrong, and you know what the worst part of it is?” He can’t see it, but he hears the soft rasp as Stiles licks his lips. “As devastated as I am about Heather, all I can think about is that I could be next.”

 _”Stiles,”_ Scott breathes, pulling on his friend carefully in order to make him finally turn around and look at him, “I would _not_ let that happen.”

He huffs, but there is none of his usual humor in it. “That’s sweet, buddy, but what exactly are you gonna do about it? We don’t even really know who is doing this. I mean, the alpha pack seems like the obvious answer, but when has the obvious answer ever actually been the right one?”

“True,” Scott acknowledges, “but that wasn’t really what I meant.”

Cocking his head, Stiles tells him, “You lost me.”

Moving his hand from his friend’s shoulder, Scott slides it down until he can lace his fingers with Stiles’s. He places his other hand on his friend’s hip. “I mean,” he murmurs, as he leans forward, his eyes on his friend’s lips, “I’m not going to let that happen.” He flicks his gaze upward at the last moment, catching sight of wide, stunned eyes, and then he brings their mouths together. He keeps the kiss soft, waiting patiently for Stiles to catch up. It takes a little longer than he expects, but then a hand slides up the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and wide, full lips open slightly as Stiles presses back.

It feels perfectly imperfect, not having to lean down, not feeling fine bones and soft curves beneath his hands, not smelling apples and rosemary and gunpowder and metal, bumping into a rounded, upturned nose with his own, rather than an aquiline one. Then the moment is over, Stiles freezing and pulling back, asking, “Allison?”

Scott brings Stiles closer again, pressing their foreheads together. “I don’t know what will happen with Allison, Stiles. I still love her, I’ll probably always love her” he admits - although it can hardly be considered an admission when Stiles already knows, “but I love you, too.”

Shaking his head against Scott’s own, Stiles counters, “Not like that.”

“Maybe not,” Scott allows, “but maybe that’s better. I kind of lose sight of everything when I’m with her, but not with you. You make everything brighter - sharper.” When Stiles still looks uncertain, Scott says, “Stiles, you always try to take care of everyone. Just this once, let me take care of you?”

Swallowing, Stiles closes his eyes and tells him, “I don’t know if I can do this with you and not want more.”

Bringing his hand up from Stiles’s hip to cup his cheek, Scott waits until his friend’s eyes open again to say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies, his mouth stretching into a little grin. “Okay.”

“Well then,” Stiles starts, “I guess there’s really only one question left.”

Prepared to do whatever necessary to put his friend’s mind at ease, Scott asks, “What?”

“My house,” Stiles asks, trying and failing to hide a grin of his own, “or yours?”

Scott rolls his eyes, even as he laughs. He and Stiles are going to be just fine.


End file.
